End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  ‘You finished now? My turn,’ followed by a harsher, ‘What took you so fucking long?’

  No idea who else was even in the room, Porter tried and failed to blink himself back into gear. Saw Tyler walking slowly towards him. Started pushing up from the floor, only making it as far as a half-press-up position. Saw Tyler’s foot draw back. An instant later, a grenade of pain detonated in his ribs. He slumped back down, face to the floor again, what little breath he had in hammered out.

  Porter felt breath against his cheek as Tyler loomed into view, slapping something against the floor, so close it took Porter a few seconds to focus and realise it was the Mini Cooper.

  ‘You keep this up, you’re gonna wish you’d been in the car with her.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ‘Try him again,’ said Bell. ‘He’s not answering me.’

  Styles sighed, tapped Porter’s number again. Five rings then the click into voicemail. He shook his head. ‘Might just be driving,’ he said hopefully.

  Bell shook her head. ‘Not unless he’s going via Southampton. Should have been here an hour ago. What about trying his missus?’

  Styles hesitated. With what Porter had been up to lately, last thing he needed was dropping him in it with Evie again. ‘Let’s give him ten more minutes. I’ll try him a few more times, then worst case, we crack on and he can just catch up.’

  Bell looked less than impressed, but with no real recourse, she slumped back into a seat and started tapping away at her own phone. Seconds later, a name flashed up on Styles’s phone. Not Porter though, Evie.

  ‘Evie, hey. What’s up?’

  A loud sniff, followed by noisy breath. ‘Nick. It’s Jake. He’s hurt.’

  Styles was up on his feet, moving towards the door as he spoke.

  ‘What’s happened? Where are you?’

  He spoke low so as not to alert the others, but he caught Bell staring at him. He signalled that he was just going to the loo and stepped out into the corridor, checking both ways, like he was crossing the road. Right, left, right again. He listened to her speak, punctuated by loud breaths, pausing as she tried to process what had happened. His own stomach did a flip an Olympic gymnast would be proud of as she offloaded.

  Styles wasted no time, climbing into the car, double-timing it over to King’s College Hospital. The A&E waiting area was a large open-plan, atrium-style space, and standing room only. He jogged to the desk, cutting in past the guy just about to step forward. The man had a nose that could double as a ski slope and couldn’t have looked less pleased if Styles had just spat in his face.

  ‘Wait your bloody turn,’ he said, waving a hand that had a pack of frozen peas gaffer-taped to it.

  ‘Sorry sir, police,’ he said, holding up his warrant card. ‘I just need a few seconds.’ He felt the tiniest twinge of guilt pulling rank, but he ignored the angry mutterings and turned his attention to a now curious receptionist, who heard him out, before pointing him through double doors to his left.

  Porter lay half propped up in a bed, curtains pulled either side. One side of his face looked like it had a run-in with a cheese grater, splotches of drying blood raised like Braille. Evie sat on one side, leaning in, holding his left hand in both of hers. His other rested across his stomach, little finger through to middle was a thick bundle of dressing. Porter turned his head towards Evie, spotted Styles approaching and went to scoot up a few inches.

  He tried to hide the pain, but Styles saw it ripple across his face. Evie clocked him now as well, and he saw her swallow hard, trying to hold it together. Pink tinge to her eyes and the double sniff as he pulled up a second chair told a tale though.

  ‘Don’t tell me you tried running out of Maccy D’s without paying again?’ Styles said.

  Flicker of a smile from both.

  ‘They tried to give me full fat Coke, and it all kicked off after that.’

  A laugh escaped Evie, more nerves and bottled tension than humour.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ Styles asked.

  Porter looked at Evie, back at Styles, somewhere between sheepish and full-blown embarrassment. ‘So stupid, I just … I was on my way in, and thought I had a flat. I pulled over to take a look and these guys came up. Started off by asking if I needed a hand, then one of them asked to borrow my phone. Next thing I know, there’s a third one, and they all just … swarmed. Didn’t even get a chance to tell them I was a copper.’

  ‘What did they look like?’

  ‘Average height. Average build. Apart from that, it’s all a bit … fuzzy,’ he said, touching a finger lightly to his temple. ‘One of them caught me good here.’

  ‘Jesus, how’d you get away?’

  ‘Ah, another car pulled up, few blokes got out and the others just scarpered.’

  ‘Where’d it happen?’

  ‘Just up the road, near Walworth.’

  Why south of the Thames? No reason for Porter to cross over on his way to the station. Styles’s bullshit meter had already been twitching, but this sent it off the charts. King’s College Hospital was miles off the route that he should have been taking. No chance they brought him here as first choice. There were three or four back north that they’d practically have to drive past to get here.

  ‘How’d you get here? You all right to drive?’

  Porter shook his head. ‘My head, I could barely see straight.’

  ‘They think he might have concussion,’ Evie chipped in.

  ‘Someone called an ambulance. My car will still be sat there somewhere. And I haven’t got concussion.’

  ‘Busted up?’ Styles said, pointing at Porter’s bandaged fingers.

  His boss nodded. ‘These three, plus two ribs. I’m fine though.’

  ‘Oh yeah, you look peachy,’ Styles said. ‘We got anyone out there yet looking for the guys?’

  ‘He hasn’t even called it in,’ Evie said, ‘maybe you can talk some sense into him?’

  Styles gave him a what-the-hell? look. ‘Here,’ he said, pretending to reach for Porter’s hand. ‘Give me five minutes alone and extra bandages to wrap the other two fingers, and I’ll see what I can do.’

  Evie let go of Porter’s hand, smoothed tendrils of hair back from her temples and stood up.

  ‘You’ve got two, I’m off to the ladies.’

  Styles scraped his chair back to let her past, watched as she disappeared through the double doors and back out to reception. He turned his attention back to Porter.

  ‘Right, that gives us one minute and fifty seconds for you to tell me what really happened.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Two hours, and a dose of strong painkillers later, Porter walked slowly through the doors and out into the car park, flanked by Styles and Evie. He’d given Styles a quick run-down of what had actually transpired, leaving out the part about him wading in first with the baton. That part stung his pride too much. He was better than that. Emphasis on the ‘was’. Used to think he had the self-control that those he arrested lacked. Today had shown that to be a lie.

  Styles promised to get someone from the team to keep an eye on Kat’s house for a few days, a rotation of Williams and Waters. Any more than that and Milburn might get suspicious. He’d also made another promise. More of an ultimatum really. Full disclosure on anything to do with Holly’s case. Anything less, any repeats of charging off to be the lone hero, and Styles swore he’d make the call to Milburn himself.

  Porter insisted on riding back to the station with Styles, much to Evie’s irritation. Styles had shared Bell’s news though, and Porter was keen to get more detail. Her guy had come through with the audio analysis, and was ninety-nine per cent sure that the main guy, the one who wielded the knife, was not a native Arabic speaker. Something about the one phrase, Allahu Akbar not being pronounced properly. They’d also gone as far as to say that the accented English used throughout the rest was most likely forced, and fake.

  Evie extracted her own promise from Styles. He wasn’t to let Porter out of
his sight, until he dropped him back home later.

  ‘If he needs the loo, I expect you to go in and watch.’

  Styles raised one eyebrow. ‘This could take our relationship to a whole new level.’

  The journey back across the Thames to Paddington Green was a grilling, Styles after every last detail about what had happened.

  ‘Look at it this way, boss,’ Styles said, as they pulled into the car park. ‘Could have been worse. He could have got his hammer out.’

  Porter pursed his lips, nodding, saying nothing but picturing the moment when the round hammer end of the tool had cracked his little finger. Ring finger and middle were worse though. He’d known what was coming. Unable to move, the weight of the second mystery man on his back, leaning over holding his hand flat against the carpet while Tyler swung the hammer. Echoes of the gang leader’s promises.

  Third warning. One finger for each. Only thing saving you is the fact you’re a copper, but I know why you ain’t here mob-handed, so listen up. Any more shit from you, and it’s that pretty sister of yours who gets warning number four. You can’t watch her for ever.

  Protecting Kat meant walking away from Holly. Damned if he did. Damned if he didn’t.

  Taylor Bell was halfway through a Krispy Kreme when they walked in.

  ‘It’s only my third,’ she said, licking a splodge of frosting off a finger. ‘Don’t you dare judge.’ He caught her staring at his fingers, seeing the bloom of bruising between scabs on his temple.

  ‘Walked into a door,’ he said, no time for long-winded explanations.

  ‘A revolving one?’

  What smile he managed made him wince, one side of his jaw still tender from being rammed into the floor.

  ‘Nick told me the headlines from your guy, said there was something more about pronunciation being off.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ she said. ‘More takeaway than terrorist.’

  Porter wasn’t sure he’d heard that right, or what the hell it would mean if he had.

  ‘So it’s pronounced Alaw-hu-ak-bur, meaning God is great. Our guy says it like more like aloo akbar. Aloo is Urdu for potato, so he’s literally saying potatoes are great. Not the greatest poster child for the Brotherhood.’

  Styles stifled a laugh. ‘So, we’re looking for a vegetarian extremist?’

  ‘More likely that than anyone from the Brotherhood.’ She nodded. ‘Had some more input from our undercovers too. The Brotherhood are actively seeking out our mystery men. They want them just as bad as we do. Difference being, they want to recruit them. Their words, not mine. Why would you be trying to recruit someone unless they were nothing to do with you as it stands?’

  ‘And why would you put a claim on what they did in the name of the Brotherhood, if you weren’t a part of it already?’ Porter added.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Still probably not enough for your gaffer, but I’m telling you, these guys were not part of them.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure as I can be. I’ll know for certain by tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? What happens tomorrow?’

  She bit down on her lower lip. ‘I’d rather not say, not just yet. In case I’m wrong.’

  ‘Thought you were never wrong?’ Styles said.

  ‘Everyone gets it wrong sometimes,’ she said. ‘Even God. You think he meant to create a platypus? Must have had a heavy session on the Communion wine that night.’

  She had a knack of throwing conversations in directions that left Porter lost for how to respond, and he saw Styles loving every minute of it. She promised to rock up early tomorrow morning, give him a heads up before Milburn poked his nose into the briefing. She drifted off, leaving just the two of them, the rest of the team having disappeared off home while Porter was still in A&E.

  ‘No one else knows I ended up in hospital then?’ he asked.

  Styles shook his head. ‘Didn’t see the need to share. Although you should probably have a think what you’ll say tomorrow. You look like some kids on a sugar high used you as a piñata.’

  ‘I’ll think of something. Where does this leave us with the EWP then? Anything else happen while I was … ahm … away?’

  ‘Nothing yet, although I’ve asked Dee to have a look for any CCTV around the EWP office the day of the call, see if we can at least narrow down who was in. Sucheka’s picking up the York angle for Winter, make sure that checks out. I was thinking of sending Gus back to Greenwich after the morning briefing, hit the few businesses we didn’t get an answer from around security camera footage as well.’

  Porter nodded his approval. ‘See, you didn’t even need me around today anyway. On a serious note though, my head’s pounding. Any chance you can run me to get my car?’

  Styles frowned, ridges magically appearing across his forehead, deep enough to scream disapproval.

  ‘I’ll be fine to drive.’

  Styles gave him a once up and down as if to say, Look at the state of you.

  ‘Honestly, I’m fine. If you run me home, I’m just going to get a taxi and pick it up myself.’

  ‘You are one stubborn bastard, you know that?’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment coming from you.’

  ‘Fine, but I’m following you back.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Promised Evie, boss.’

  Porter held his gaze, both eyebrows arched, but Styles just shook his head.

  ‘Gah! Fine. Pointless, but it’s your time you’re wasting.’

  It was getting on for midnight by the time they got to Walworth. Porter rested an elbow against the door frame, propping his head against one hand, rubbing gently at the spot where he’d been caught. Pretty sure it had been a kick, although he was too dazed by that point to know if it was Tyler or his helper.

  ‘Whereabouts on the high street?’

  ‘Keep going,’ said Porter, fingers of a headache starting to curl around the edges, a sure sign the painkillers were wearing off.

  They hit the edge of Burgess Park and rolled over the intersection with Bowyer Place. Every approaching headlight was a fresh lance of pain. Porter fumbled in his pocket, popping a couple of tablets from a blister pack, crunching them like Smarties.

  ‘Why don’t you take the morning off tomorrow, boss?’ Styles said. ‘I can handle the briefing, call you if anything big happens.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s see how we go,’ said Porter, sliding the remaining tablets back into his pocket, brushing against something solid, something forgotten. ‘Hang a left here, just before William Hill.’

  Porter saw the nose of his car poking out from the alley behind the flats.

  ‘That where he lives?’ Styles said, nodding up at the block of flats.

  Porter grunted an acknowledgement.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Porter shook his head slowly, the painkillers yet to kick in. ‘I know you’re keen to drop him off some flowers, a thank-you card, that sort of thing, but you’ve been telling me to leave it, so we leave it.’

  He opened his door, but turned back, hearing Styles do the same.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘In case they’re watching,’ said Styles. ‘You’re in no fit state. Once you’re back in your car, I’m back in mine.’

  Porter nodded, leaving Styles to head towards his car, smiling at the overprotective little brother his DS had become. All the more reason to keep him out of what would come next.

  Porter couldn’t help but glance along the lane as he climbed into the driver’s seat, déjà vu washing over him. No charging thugs this time, only shadows. He started the car, flicking the Bluetooth off on his phone to stop it connecting, reaching into his pocket. Swallowed back a nauseous swoop in the pit of his stomach. Whether it was injury-related or guilty conscience at what he was contemplating, who knew? Contemplating? Balls to that, he was doing this. No other choice he could see.

  The second phone, long-term loan from Józef was Android to his Apple,
but only took him another thirty seconds to pair it to his car. Empty call log, save for one number, no name against it. Pressed to dial as he pulled away, turning towards where Styles sat parked. The ring seemed amplified in the otherwise silent car, as if it was conspiring to be heard, loud enough for Styles to catch any conversation as he rolled past him.

  Up to the third ring by the time he pulled onto the main road. A click. Few seconds of silence, as the person on the other end waited him out.

  ‘It’s me,’ Porter said at last. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Then let’s talk,’ said the heavily accented voice.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Porter was used to having to fight for every scrap of sleep, but last night had been ridiculous even by his standards. Two hours tops, chunks of the night spent staring at the ceiling, working through a dozen other ways this could go. It boiled down to one simple question. What mattered more, his job or seeing his Holly’s killer behind bars? Being a copper was all he knew, but in the absence of Kamau waking up, or Jackson Tyler having an epiphany and developing a conscience, he was at a dead end, staring at the only way forward. He just hoped Evie would understand if it all went pear-shaped.

  Nuhić had been very specific about this morning. His bakery at Creekmouth Industrial Estate had squatters from the Met outside last time Porter was here. They hadn’t been spotted for a few weeks, but no sense taking any risks. Approach from the back he’d been told. A fire escape would be left open for him. Seven o’clock sharp. Evie had still been flat out when he left, and he’d had to fight the urge to plant a gentle kiss on her head as he left, for fear of waking her and having to answer the inevitable questions about where he was heading so early. He didn’t want to lie to her any more than he had to. Than he already had.

  Porter popped another pair of painkillers as he approached the door. Didn’t even have a chance to try the handle himself. It opened when he was still six feet away, a young man in overalls that might have been white once upon a time stared and beckoned him in. No words were exchanged. Porter followed him down a long corridor, into the belly of the bakery. He recognised the layout from his previous visit, the scent of warm, fresh-baked bread teasing his taste buds.